


Joining the Dots

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Part 5 of Fire and Ice series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lestrade, Mycroft and Sherlock make various discoveries and Lestrade receives an unwelcome reminder of a former acquaintance.</p><p>Part 5 of the <i>Fire and Ice</i> series</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joining the Dots

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Соединяя точки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134059) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



> Many thanks to Beth H for her beta.

JANUARY 2009

"You're early!" said Lestrade with obvious pleasure. He was so focussed on Mycroft that he barely registered Fatima leaving after she had completed the security check of the flat. But at the sound of the front door closing he stepped in, so that their bodies were brushing, to offer a teasing nip-kiss.

With bags in both hands, Mycroft kissed him back, licking slowly into Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade bit gently on his lower lip, drawing it out and slid his hands through the gap between overcoat and suit jacket to cup Mycroft's backside, rubbing it gently. 

Mycroft made a 'Mmn' sound of approval, before his tongue was pressing against Lestrade's .

And it felt like coming home.

"Is that an umbrella in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" murmured Lestrade, his eyes still on Mycroft's parted mouth as they drew apart slightly.

Mycroft gave a pained groan. "One can only be grateful that you have a day job."

"Comedy's never been my strong point," allowed Lestrade unrepentantly. "Is there any chance that's food in those bags?"

"None whatsoever. However, I do come bearing gifts." Mycroft handed Lestrade two plebeian plastic bags.

"So I see. Wellington boots. You shouldn't have." Lestrade's fond expression underwent a ludicrous change. "Oh, God. You're not sending me to the country, are you?"

"Would you go?" Mycroft asked with interest. He shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on the hatstand they had bought the previous weekend from an antique shop specialising in Victoriana.

Lestrade looked resigned. "Probably. So no taking advantage. I don't want to sound ungrateful but why have you bought me these wellies?"

"According to the Met. Office, this unseasonably warm weather will turn to arctic temperatures and blizzards by the beginning of February."

"Even in London?" Lestrade looked sceptical.

"Especially in London and the Home Counties. You'll probably be having meetings about contingency plans in the next few days. That will certainly be my fate," said Mycroft without enthusiasm, as he tossed his scarf over a hook.

"That'll teach you to be so competent."

" _Competent_?" echoed Mycroft with a moue of distaste.

Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin. "What was I thinking."

"There's a scarf, hat and gloves in the other bag - as I've noticed you seem to lack any of the above. I've also taken the liberty of booking a suite for you at a hotel almost opposite New Scotland Yard for the first week of February, just in case. Have I overstepped in making such arrangements?" Mycroft added, when Lestrade just stared at him.

"Of course not." Lestrade rummaged in the second bag. "This scarf feels wonderful. And I see you resisted the comic hat."

Mycroft gave an exaggerated sigh.

Lestrade kissed him again. One of Mycroft's guilty secrets was that he loved to buy presents - not necessarily in person, but the selecting. And just so long as it didn't get out of hand Lestrade was reluctant to spoil the moment. "I've been meaning to get myself something warmer, but there's this tall, ginger bloke who keeps distracting me."

"And yet again it's my fault," noted Mycroft, but he was smiling now.

"And if it doesn't snow we can sneak off to the hotel for lunchtime sex," added Lestrade.

"A delightful thought, but a tad impractical, given my diary for the next few weeks."

"Home, or away?"

"Home, I hope. Except for a quick trip...elsewhere."

"Well, if I'm going to miss out on lunchtime sex, you'll just have to make it up to me now." Lestrade took an unprotesting Mycroft by the wrist and led him into the bedroom.

"You're looking remarkably pleased with yourself," noted Mycroft, as he unfastened his watch chain and removed his cuff links and tie pin. "Good news at work?"

"The best. Well, almost. My Chief Super has _finally_ agreed to promote Sally Donovan, which gives me another, much-needed, sergeant. More to the point, she's a good copper, with an eye for detail." Lestrade hung up his suit jacket, and only just avoided tripping over Mycroft's abandoned shoes.

"Congratulations. We should celebrate."

"We're going to." Lestrade brushed Mycroft's hand out the way to busy himself with the buttons on Mycroft's trousers.

"You're much faster than you used to be," Mycroft observed, watching as nimble fingers travelled down his groin.

"Practice, that's the key." 

Then Lestrade stopped talking to lick Mycroft's jaw, mouthing hungry, wet kisses over the beginnings of ginger stubble as he slid the red braces from Mycroft's shoulders.

Mycroft stepped out of his trousers, cradled Lestrade's head between his hands and set about kissing all the breath from his body.

Not for the first time since meeting Mycroft, Lestrade marvelled that he could have forgotten what it was like being with another bloke; knowing exactly how a touch would make his partner feel only increased Lestrade's lust, and this wasn't anyone - this was Mycroft, breathing rapidly into his mouth as his cock twitched against his palm, Mycroft's hands owning his arse, Mycroft's leg between his thighs.

By the time their mouths separated, they were both breathing hard.

Lestrade murmured, "Fast or slow?"

Raw with want, Mycroft's cheeks were flushed, his eyes seeming all pupil. "B-both." His unsteady hands finally succeeded in unfastening the trousers of Lestrade's work suit, which promptly slid floor-wards.

"Good choice," breathed Lestrade, shrugging out of the shirt he didn't remember unfastening. "Did you do this?" he asked.

"Skilled multi-tasker," explained Mycroft smugly, which piece of over-confidence meant he received a nip where it wouldn't show before Lestrade kissed it better. He browsed down the long neck to lick through the fine cotton of Mycroft's shirt just over his right nipple. The scrape of teeth made Mycroft shiver and grow even harder, one hand cradling the back of Lestrade's head.

As if to prove his own multi-tasking skills, Lestrade heeled off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers, before balancing first on one shaking leg, then the other, because he was damned if he'd be caught wearing only his socks. But he had to stop tormenting Mycroft when a caressing hand almost caused him to lose his balance.

"You're not helping," he pointed out, clutching Mycroft for support.

"No," admitted Mycroft, without a sign of repentance, his fingers sliding up inside the leg of Lestrade's boxers.

Lestrade rubbed the beautiful definition of Mycroft's cock before he eased down the pale grey designer boxer-briefs, with due care for their contents.

Mycroft inhaled sharply but retained enough concentration to slide Lestrade's boxers down over his backside, his hands lingering.

As his cock sprang free Lestrade eased even closer. Their cocks nudged and bumped one another as they exchanged deep, wet kisses. 

Lestrade eased Mycroft back towards the bed, toppling him down before leaning over him to deal with fastened shirt buttons and almost forgetting to remove the tie before the shirt.

"Too many fucking clothes," he muttered, scraping Mycroft's left nipple with his thumbnail and doing it again when Mycroft arched with a strangled gasp, the hands teasing his backside tightening their grip to the edge of pain.

Lestrade mouthed his way down Mycroft's torso before he licked and sucked the crease where thigh met torso. He rubbed his freshly shaved cheek against Mycroft's cock, nosing at the glistening threads of moisture. Drunk on the scent of him, he snuffled and licked his testicles, mouthing them until Mycroft was making soft, strangled sounds as he thrust and twisted beneath him, his expression vulnerable and open and so trusting that it penetrated even Lestrade's lust-filled haze. He paused for a moment, just to offer a light kiss to that parted mouth, before resuming his torment. His flat-palmed hands pinning Mycroft at the hips, he teased the glistening head of his cock with his tongue tip and just the edge of his teeth as he offered up his mouth.

"D-don't - "

Lestrade withdrew so the head of Mycroft's cock slipped free to look up at him with the wickedest of grins. "Don't?" His eyebrows waggled.

Abruptly Mycroft relaxed. "I'm at your mercy," he said simply.

Lestrade almost came on the spot.

It was soon over after that, Lestrade maintaining a strong, no-nonsense sucking action as he caressed Mycroft's balls, reducing him to a crumpled wreck, that wonderful brain disengaged - because of him.

Sprawled on his back beside a pink-cheeked and still breathless Mycroft, Lestrade's jutting cock quivered with each unsteady inhalation. He shivered at the first delicate touch and looked up to find Mycroft watching at him. 

"What?" he asked, stroking Mycroft's forearm. "Is something wrong?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm just salivating. I feel I should apologise in advance, because I intend to take my time over you."

Lestrade eased up on one elbow to nuzzle Mycroft's belly. "You can take anything you want," he said, as steadily as was possible for a man with his balls in knots.

He watched Mycroft swallow.

"You couldn't have mentioned that five minutes ago," said Mycroft plaintively.

Lestrade grinned. "It was your fault for distracting me."

"No, this will be distracting." Mycroft eased Lestrade onto his stomach before he began to mouth his way across Lestrade's back, licking and sucking and nipping until he reached the downy hollow of his spine.

Lestrade crooked his leg even further to relieve the pressure on his cock. He shivered at the slight smart left by a stubbled cheek, as if Mycroft was scent-marking his skin, only to give a strangled yelp when Mycroft tongued his way down to his balls and back, hands moving in great swathes down his spine. 

Then, parting Lestrade's buttocks with the side of his thumbs, Mycroft's stabbing tongue made Lestrade writhe and buck and whimper in a way that made it obvious Mycroft had seriously over-estimated his lover's self-control. 

 

FEBRUARY-MARCH  
"Are the Wellington boots a good fit?" asked Mycroft, when he finally managed to speak to Lestrade, after an unsatisfactory period of texting and messages on voice mail. 

"You can't just say 'I told you so' like normal people, can you. Are you all right?" 

The warmth in Gregory's voice wrapping itself around him, Mycroft stretched out his legs, the petty irritations of the last few days slipping away. "I'm absolutely fine, if a tad bored. Until Heathrow airport works out how to deal with snow, the likelihood of getting a flight back in the next few days is remote. And the additional time here is likely to be swallowed up by increasingly tedious meetings. How's work?"

"Paperwork, court and more paperwork."

"I'm sorry," said Mycroft.

"I can't say 'me too' because that would mean I'm hoping someone gets murdered," said Lestrade, sounding torn between amusement and wry acceptance.

More relaxed by the second, Mycroft smiled at the far wall of his room at the British Embassy and prepared to enjoy himself. 

"Thanks for this hotel suite incidentally," continued Lestrade. "It's been a lifesaver. So few people managed to get in to work, given the lack of public transport, that those of us who did have been working all hours. Actually, it's just as well you're not here as it would be a tight squeeze - the suite's currently housing seven of us, excluding me."

"How did you explain the suite to your people?" enquired Mycroft, amused.

"The consensus of opinion seems to be that I must have a rich lover. They'd already sussed out that I had someone - it seems I've been more cheerful than usual - and the suite's on the luxurious side for a DI's salary."

"More cheerful?"

"Apparently going round humming 'Wake Up and Make Love With Me' is a bit of a give away."

"That would be by Ian Drury," said Mycroft, after a moment for reflection, remembering the sway of Gregory's backside as he'd sung that while making tea, unaware that he was being watched.

"You _have_ been paying attention," noted Lestrade with approval. "Unfortunately, so have my team."

"Your fault for treating them so well."

Lestrade gave a derisive snort before he thought to ask, "Does my music drive you nuts? I should get an ipod."

"Not on my account. Though I confess I'm unlikely to warm towards The Specials."

"2-tone ska was obviously a step too far. You should retaliate."

"Just be grateful I'm not a fan of Wagner."

"Did he write - compose - that thing where the woman wearing horns blasts out the foghorn song?"

Mycroft gave a soft huff of amusement. "That's one way of putting it. And all too accurate as far as I'm concerned. Are you alone?"

"Apart from D.C. Wanduragala, who's asleep next to me. The others are crammed into the second bedroom and sitting room - proof that rank has some privileges. It's surreal seeing blizzards in London. Even the buses stopped running yesterday. By the way, have you murdered Sherlock and forgotten to tell me, only I haven't seen him for nearly two weeks?"

Mycroft gave a private smile at Lestrade's poorly concealed concern. "Sherlock's in Florida."

"Oh," said Lestrade blankly. "It never occurred to me that he would take a holiday."

"He's working."

"Blimey. That could set back Anglo-American relations by a decade."

"He hasn't created an international incident so far."

"Touch wood when you say that," scolded Lestrade.

Mycroft laughed. "Are you superstitious?"

"No."

"Gregory..."

"Hey, I'm not the one who promised not to lie."

"You're sure that's the line you want to take?"

"Probably not," Lestrade conceded. "I might be a bit superstitious."

"Do you walk under ladders?"

"Of course not. Do you?"

"Hardly. Do you have any idea of the number of accidents that are caused by..."

As the stream of persiflage washed over him, Lestrade smiled to himself. He had just learned another of Mycroft's guilty secrets, to add to the fact that he used moisturiser, loved buying presents, and watched the films of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers for the seemingly effortless grace displayed in the dance scenes, and those of Bruce Lee for different reasons entirely.

"OK, I get it. Not a superstitious bone in your body," said Lestrade affectionately. "What's Sherlock working on?" 

"The case concerns our old nanny." Mycroft was circumspect because Gregory was unlikely to approve of the likely - certain - outcome. Though he would give Sherlock a while longer out there because he was so clearly enjoying himself; the only surprise was how much the Americans liked _him_.

"Oh. Is there anything I can do to help at this end?" asked Lestrade in a different tone. "Personally as well as professionally?"

"I don't believe so, but thank you. Damn, I have a call I must take. I'll try to call tomorrow. Though as it will be probably be late your time..."

"I thought I'd trained you out of being a dick."

Mycroft gave another soft huff of amusement. "Think of me as a work in progress," he said, and then he was gone.

Lestrade set down his phone and stared pensively at the wall. It wasn't until he'd heard Mycroft's voice that he appreciated just how much he had been missing him. And sharing a king-sized bed with a snoring Newton Wanduragala was no substitute, even if he was a hell of a lot tidier.

oOo

"I've woken you," said Mycroft, when he was greeted by an incoherent mumble.

"'S OK." Lestrade eased up in bed, rubbing his face.

"What's that noise?"

"Detective Constable Newton Wanduragala snoring."

"Good Lord."

"Quite. You can see why I'm missing you. So, are the natives friendly?"

"Gregory... " Mycroft sighed, knowing he was going to break his own rule. "They speak, what I am reliably informed, is English."

"Oh. Right. Great. Maple syrup, kangaroo steaks, sheep or a Stetson?"

"You want to eat a Stetson?"

"Such a comedian," said Lestrade, relaxing fully now he knew Mycroft really was safe. "At least the natives are friendly."

"Less so now they've met me."

"Inexplicable."

"My very thought. I trust there hasn't been a crime-wave at your end?"

"One good thing about extreme weather, it keeps people home in the warm for the most part. Though we've had one poor sod frozen to death. Too much alcohol, combined with too little clothes. He died in his own back garden. Thirty one. Such a waste. 

"Hey, I meant to say yesterday - this was a brilliant choice of hotel. There's rumoured to be a tunnel that starts under the grand staircase in the lobby and runs all the way to Parliament. Care to comment?"

"Really, Gregory..."

"That's what I thought. I suppose you know MI6 were based here during the Second World War?"

"Indeed?"

"You wouldn't get away with that if you were lying next to me."

"If I was lying beside you we wouldn't be wasting our time discussing hotels," said Mycroft with feeling. He knew he was in more danger of adversely affecting Anglo-America relations than Sherlock, and all because he was missing Gregory.

"I know. You'll have remembered Newton's next to me. I can't - "

"I can," said Mycroft smugly.

"Don't you dare," hissed Lestrade.

"No," sighed Mycroft. "Relax. My better angel is prevailing."

"Difficult to imagine you and angels being on nodding acquaintance."

"Oddly enough, you're not the first person to say that."

They talked for another three and a half hours, about everything and nothing, casually linking the threads of their lives tighter together until Mycroft realised what the time must be in London.

"You should have reminded me," he said.

"Worth it," said Lestrade. "Call whenever you get the chance."

oOo

It wasn't until Lestrade was finally able to return to his flat and tripped over some of Mycroft's discarded laundry, that he realised just how far they had come without him stopping to notice. When he wasn't abroad, Mycroft lived here. They had, to all intents and purposes, moved in together and it seemed so easy and natural that he hadn't even noticed the giant leap they had taken. While in many ways they couldn't have been more different, it felt as if they were designed to fit together, all their differences smoothing out to form a seamless join. Though the fact Mycroft seemed to know what he was thinking before he did took a bit of getting used to. There again, he'd managed to disconcert Mycroft a few times himself.

As he sipped one of the teas Mycroft had bought him, Lestrade wondered how long he had been in love with Mycroft without noticing. Not that he took happiness for granted, but this bone-deep contentment which informed everything he did seemed to have snuck up on him. A bit like Mycroft really.

Not that he was perfect, of course.

There were certain disadvantages to sharing a home with him - quite apart from his security detail. While fastidious in his person and clothes, Mycroft scattered possessions in a way that made it obvious he'd always had someone to clear up after him. By the time he had finished in the bathroom, it looked as if a typhoon had passed through. And when he made scrambled eggs, he left a trail of devastation in his wake. But he was perceptive and adaptable and his cleaning skills had already improved by a marked degree. The first time he saw Lestrade picking up after him he had looked so mortified that Lestrade promised himself he would never do it again. Though it had been a near thing a couple of times.

Lestrade assumed his need to keep possessions tidily stored away stemmed from his time at the Care Home, where if you left anything lying around, it got nicked. Until now, it hadn't occurred to him that his habit could be just as annoying as anyone elses because Julia had been even tidier than he was and far more of a neat freak.

Of course, to be fair to Mycroft, his work schedule left little time for necessities like shopping for food and doing the washing. With that in mind, Lestrade had agreed to Len, Mycroft's manservant, having access to the flat to attend to Mycroft's clothes and laundry. That Len also left the flat immaculate, and a freezer full of delicious homemade meals cooked by his wife, was something Lestrade pretended not to notice for pride's sake.

He hoped Mycroft had briefed Len not to say anything to Sherlock about their relationship. He didn't want Sherlock's designer-shod feet anywhere near Mycroft, who let him get away with murder. And Sherlock knew how to hurt him better than anyone. Still, with luck, it would be years before Sherlock knew what was going on.

Lestrade glanced round the bedroom and decided he could risk clearing up after Mycroft, who was likely to be away for at least another week, going God only knew where. He could make an educated guess where, and it scared him shitless, so better to keep busy. Dirty socks in one hand, the laundry basket in the other, Lestrade admitted that he would be happy to wade through every item of Mycroft's formidable collection of clothes just to have him home safe.

oOo

By the time Mycroft flew back into England from a chilly Kabul, blizzards in London had turned to unseasonably warm weather, the temperature having risen fifteen degrees in under a week.

 

Lestrade emerged from his centrally-heated office onto a balmy Victoria Street and raised his face to the sun. Spring had sprung two months early and while it wouldn't last he intended to take advantage of it. He undid his tie, unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt, and shrugged out of his overcoat, which he hooked over one shoulder. When he was opposite Westminster Cathedral, he turned to cross the road, his expression lighting when he saw a familiar figure strolling towards him, furled umbrella swinging.

"I was hoping to surprise you," said Mycroft, with nothing inscrutable about his expression.

"You have. No wheels?"

"Just hidden strings," said Mycroft, straight-faced.

"And you can even pull your own," said Lestrade admiringly.

The long mouth quirked. "That sounds a trifle - "

" - masturbatory?"

"I was going to say complicated, but now you mention it that does seem to have been a feature of my life recently."

"Are you home for a bit now?" asked Lestrade hopefully. Mycroft looked as if he hadn't slept much in the last ten days but he was also looking fairly relaxed, so things must have gone well.

"For a while, I hope. One might almost believe you were pleased to see me."

"Oh, that will never do," said Lestrade, tucking his arm into Mycroft's. "Where are we going?"

"Well, eventually I have to be at the Department of Transport."

Lestrade gave a grin of delight. "Really?"

"I have to put in an appearance occasionally, and regrettably sometimes for more than keeping my cover alive. But for now, I was hoping we could have lunch - to sustain me through what will undoubtedly be a dull meeting."

"Because the weather's so gorgeous I was intending to have a picnic in St. James's Park. Unless..." Lestrade eyed Mycroft with doubt.

"I don't have to eat a hamburger, do I?"

Lestrade resisted the urge to kiss him on the spot. "Once, I fed you that. Or tried to." He paused by a fruit stall. "What can I get you?"

Mycroft glanced from the attractively arranged stall, to the traffic passing within six feet of the produce.

"Live dangerously," Lestrade urged, following his thought processes with ease.

"A banana."

As Mycroft watched, Lestrade joined the short queue, chatting easily to the two women on either side of him, then to the stallholder, who greeted him like an old friend. One of the things that made Gregory so good at his job was his ease and warmth with people - something not commonly seen in police officers with over twenty years on the job. They saw too much to be able to survive without some kind of emotional defence, and that tended to leave a harder edge than Gregory seemed to possess. Then Lestrade turned back to him with a happy grin and Mycroft stopped analysing and smiled back.

"Do you want anything now, or would you rather not eat in the street?" asked Lestrade, as they set off again.

"You're laughing at me," said Mycroft with resignation.

"Only a little. Your nanny didn't approve of eating in the street?"

"She was Sherlock's nanny, but no, she didn't. Don't let me stop you," Mycroft added politely.

"Oh, I don't eat on the street either," said Lestrade blithely. "Too many fumes."

Mycroft shook his head in mock sorrow at his duplicity.

A little giddy in the pleasure of one another's company, they talked easily about inessentials as they avoided Victoria Bus Station and navigated their way through Stratton Place and up into Buckingham Palace Road, both roads and pavements crowded as workers emerged from their offices to enjoy the sun.

"Where's your security detail?" murmured Lestrade. "I only ask because there's a girl on a bike in a pink jacket and white jeans who's been following us since - "

Mycroft gave a resigned sigh.

"Not to mention the young bloke wearing - "

"Don't rub it in," said Mycroft. "So many of my people are down with the 'flu that seems to be going the rounds that I suggested some trainees from...elsewhere be allocated."

Lestrade's smile froze. "You really think it's good idea to entrust your safety to amateurs?"

Mycroft gave him a pained look. "Anthea made exactly the same point. Which is why she's - "

Lestrade swung around, scanning the busy street, only to relax after a few seconds. "She looks different with her hair up, flat shoes and spectacles. And decidedly unhappy."

"That would be with me."

"Perhaps I should wave so she can be pissed off with both of us."

Mycroft's would-be quelling look was ruined by his quirking mouth.

Lestrade grimaced as they entered the park. "It looks as if half of London had the same idea as us. Never mind, we can sit on my coat."

Mycroft didn't bat an eyelash at the suggestion. Life with Gregory was one new experience after the other; it was unrealistic to expect to enjoy all of them.

They had just settled themselves, Mycroft looking suitably out-of-place in such informal surroundings, when Lestrade's phone rang. His expression hardened, seconds later he was on his feet and hurrying towards the exit to the park.

"Gotta go!" he called as an obvious afterthought.

Mycroft swept up Lestrade's coat and followed him, as he made the briefest of calls himself.

"Get a car to me asap," snapped Lestrade. "I'm in Buckingham Palace Road, close to the park. You've organised SOCO and the doctor? Good. I want Wanduragala running the Incident Log. Try and play down speculation until we know for certain whether the remains are those of Allie Preston. Her parents went through hell thirteen years ago. Make sure there are uniforms at their house, ready for when the vultures of the press arrive. There's not much point in door to door inquiries, given that the remains have obviously been there for some years. Get Records to send up everything we have on Allie Preston, just in case. Send the physical evidence to - "

Lestrade suddenly became aware of the black car idling beside him. "Hang on, Sally.

"Mycroft?" The faint impatience in his voice and severe expression made it clear his attention was already far away.

"Take my car and driver, the opticon will ensure the lights will be in your favour all the way. Good hunting," said Mycroft rapidly.

Lestrade nodded, touched him briefly on the forearm and went. 

 

Mycroft watched the ten o'clock evening news, as he sipped a small glass of brandy. Speculation was rife that the human remains, which had been found near the petting zoo in Lambeth, might be those of the schoolgirl Allie Preston, who had disappeared on her way home from school, thirteen years ago. There were pictures of the forensic team at work and the tent which masked the actual burial site, before the broadcast cut to a glimpse of a grim-faced Lestrade entering the Preston's home.

From his own research Mycroft knew Gregory, then a detective sergeant, had worked on the first inquiry thirteen years ago. He would have even more invested in solving this case than usual. Frustrated by the fact that, even with all the resources at his disposal, there was nothing he could do to help, Mycroft set down his drink and went to pack a bag containing toiletries and clean clothing for Lestrade, before arranging for it to be couriered to New Scotland Yard.

 

After thirteen years witnesses' memories were unreliable. Fortunately, the improvement in science meant they were able to match the foreign DNA found on some of the rotting clothing with Allie's remains with that nice man from number 32 - eight doors down from where the Prestons had lived at the time of her murder.

Richard Johnson, all outward affability, was arrogant in his dismissal of Lestrade, and over-confident enough to refuse the offer of a solicitor.

Lestrade left his ego outside the Interview Room, kept the impatient Sally Donovan busy chasing paperwork, and took it slowly. Patient as a tiger in the long grass, it took him over eleven hours, interrupted by the breaks required by law, to get Johnson talking. That achieved, he had a confession before he needed the second extension of time.

Lestrade was short with those quick to celebrate, wanting to ensure every scrap of evidence was meticulously documented. That done, he congratulated his team and sent them home. Drained, he subsided behind his desk with a beaker of coffee, which one of the lads from IT had bought in for him.

The worst part had been the pathetic gratitude of Allie's parents...

Grimacing as the acidity of the coffee stung the back of his throat, Lestrade checked yet again on the paperwork, determined there should be nothing which might give Johnson's brief an opportunity to get him off on a technicality.

Detective Chief Superintendent Robinson ventured down from the dizzy heights of his office to call in on Lestrade.

"Well done, Greg. You did that family proud. Now, go home. I don't want to see you back until Wednesday. Clear?"

Numb with exhaustion in the aftermath, Lestrade nodded. "The team did well. Every one of them."

"I know. And it's been noted. But you were the one who got the supercilious bastard to talk. And if that pretty sergeant of yours was paying attention, she'll have learnt a thing or two about interrogation techniques. Young Wanduragala's showing promise."

"Yeah, he is. We were lucky there."

"Go home, Greg."

Lestrade nodded, scooped up his jacket and headed for the lifts. When he finally walked out on to Victoria Street, he found Mycroft waiting for him, being studiously ignored by the officers who unobtrusively guarded the exterior of the building.

"You bugged my office?" Lestrade said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"Tempting, but no. We're booked into the St. Ermin. Bath. Food. Then sleep." Mycroft noted the havoc caused by nine days of too much caffeine, greasy food and too little sleep on the couch in his office.

"Perfect," mumbled Lestrade, as he was steered across the busy road, through the tree-lined courtyard and into the glittering lobby of the hotel. "Are you free?"

"I am." Mycroft saw no need to trouble him with the difficulties which had been involved in making that happen at such short notice.

 

After sleeping for eight hours, Lestrade plodded back from the bathroom to find that Mycroft was awake.

"Thank you," he mumbled, as he got back beside him, snuggling close for comfort more than warmth.

"For what?" asked Mycroft, tucking an arm over him.

"For getting it right. For understanding."

"As you've done for me, you mean?"

"That's different," mumbled Lestrade, just before he slid back into sleep.

Mycroft kissed the back of his head. "I thought it might be," he murmured. Then, fishing out his tablet, he resumed work. 

oOo

Sherlock flew back from Florida in a distinctly stormy mood. He dropped his luggage off at his Montagu Street flat, the level of dust making it obvious that Mycroft hadn't been snooping in his absence, and headed for the mausoleum that was masquerading as Mycroft's current abode. While it was ease itself to gain access, not only was no one home, but apart from the few pieces of furniture which followed Mycroft from house to house, there was little indication that Mycroft had spent more than a night or two here. 

Not that Sherlock could blame him for that. Mycroft's brain must have been addled when he'd chosen this place. Unless he'd pissed off that stroppy girl who worked with him...

After drawing a blank at the Diogenes Club, which did nothing to improve his mood, Sherlock resorted to his phone as he took a taxi back to his flat.

From the number of rings, and slight slurring to Mycroft's voice, he was either drunk - unlikely - or he'd been asleep. At eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning. 

"If you were going to have Hudson killed anyway, why send me off on a wild goose chase?" said Sherlock, disdaining any of the greetings employed by polite society.

"Good morning to you, too. Is Hudson dead?" 

To add insult to injury, Mycroft made no attempt to disguise the fact he was yawning. "Oh, please. Don't take me for a fool. Where are you?" Sherlock let himself into his flat.

"In bed. I only flew in a three hours ago."

"Work?"

"Of course. You're back in London," added Mycroft.

Trust the fat lump to be more awake than he sounded, thought Sherlock, his irritation increased by the fact there was no milk for his tea.

"You're with your lover," said Sherlock. The music that was just audible in the background was certainly nothing Mycroft would listen to. Nothing he recognised, either.

"I had noticed," said Mycroft unhelpfully. "You'll give Mrs Hudson the happy news?"

"You don't want to do it?" said Sherlock, surprised. Mycroft had always tried to suck up to her, even though she was _his_ nanny.

"I'm sure she would rather hear it from you. Besides, she'll want to thank you for all your work. The Americans were quite impressed with you. But there again, they're easily pleased."

"They pay well, too," said Sherlock with a trace of smugness. True it had only been one case, and true the payment hadn't been worth taking, given the financial situation of his client, but it was the first time anyone had ever offered to pay for his services. There was obviously a future in the business of being a consulting detective. And his essays would be of interest to everyone.

"I'm delighted to hear of it, in light of your expenses."

"You can't expect me to dress in rags, or to stay in a flea-pit." Sherlock gave a wolfish grin when a sigh wafted down the line to him.

"Is there anything else?" Mycroft asked wearily.

"I need a computer expert."

"Ah. For what?" 

Mycroft made no attempt to disguise his unease. Excellent. If only he'd thought of this years ago instead of wasting all that time... 

"To improve my skills. The Trust can pay."

"I'll pass your phone number to someone. Try not to alienate them before you've learned all you need. And if you were intending to hack into - "

"Boring."

"Make sure it stays that way. Some things even I can't protect you from. Is there anything else? Only I'm going to be out of the country for the next two days."

"Cake sales will be down then."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"It's close to mid-day," pointed out Sherlock, but his brother had already hung up.

 

APRIL  
"I've been doing some research into gun holsters," said Lestrade, as he ambled out of the bathroom, still towel-drying his hair. He got into bed, pausing only to beat his pillows into submission. Mycroft had learnt to guard his share of the bedding as Gregory settled himself, but that announcement distracted him and a good half disappeared Lestrade-wards.

"Yes," he drawled with foreboding, recalling Gregory's less than stellar performance on the gun range.

"The Glock you wear gets excellent reviews on every count, but an ankle holster has the slowest draw. Why don't you use a waist or shoulder holster?"

While the question was casual, Gregory's expression was not. Mycroft subdued a sigh. He had suspected they would have to have this conversation at some point but had hoped to avoid it for longer than this. Yet again he had underestimated Gregory's protective streak.

"I wear it only as a last resort," he said.

"What, you mean if your security people...?" Lestrade trailed off into silence, clearly unwilling to voice the thought.

"Are dead or incapacitated," completed Mycroft calmly. "Obviously I can't be taken prisoner. My eidetic memory... It isn't a likely scenario but it's best to prepare for all contingencies." Only when he saw the shock on Lestrade's face did Mycroft appreciate that Gregory hadn't understood after all - until now.

"Christ."

The fingers gripping his forearm were bruising but Mycroft made no protest.

"It's a highly unlikely scenario. You and your colleagues face death every time you answer an emergency call, or go to the aid of a member of the public."

"It's not the same thing at all," snapped Lestrade.

"No, because I have protection and the vast majority of police officers aren't armed."

"There are tasers."

"Only for a limited number of officers. As a DI you have no protection whatsoever."

"But if I'm caught I don't have to..." Lestrade couldn't bring himself to say it.

"I'm sorry," said Mycroft, because an apology seemed to be called for. Gregory looked as if he wanted to be sick.

"Yeah," Lestrade mumbled, before he rounded on Mycroft. "You be bloody careful, hear?"

Mycroft swallowed all the obvious replies.

"I am," he said, wishing he'd had the sense to lie, his promise to tell the truth be damned. Gregory had already been exhausted after a stressful week and from the look of him would be unlikely to be getting much sleep in the near future. "The risk is minimal, truly."

Lestrade gave a sceptical snort, but made no resistance as Mycroft drew up the bedcovers and tucked an arm around him.

Two hours later they were both still awake.

"I'm going to make some tea," mumbled Lestrade. "You want some?"

"And toast," decided Mycroft, because noises from Gregory's stomach suggested it had been some hours since he had eaten. He pulled on the bathrobe he had bought the day before and tossed the 'spare' to Lestrade. The fact that the rich crimson suited Gregory so well was pure coincidence.

Lestrade deigned to eat the scrambled eggs Mycroft prepared, tension easing from his face and shoulders, soothed by the familiar, everyday rituals and undemanding conversation.

"You make better scrambled eggs than I do," remarked Lestrade, as he stole Mycroft's mainly uneaten potion of eggs.

"It must be natural talent," said Mycroft, just before he relieved Lestrade of the last piece of toast.

"That was low," Lestrade said with mock sorrow.

Mycroft shrugged. "Secret squirrel." But he ruined the effect by offering half the slice back to Lestrade.

When Lestrade showed no sign of wanting to return to bed, Mycroft accepted that sleep wasn't about to play a part in his immediate future.

"You don't have to sit up with me," said Lestrade abruptly, looking up from where he had been staring into his mug of tea. "I'm fine. Just not sleepy."

"In that case, it seems a pity not to take advantage of the fact we're both awake. I had intended to bring you up-to-date on our investigation at the Police Archive at Hendon but you arrived home so late I thought it could wait until tomorrow. The files are in the other room, if you'd care to deal with the matter now."

His mind replaying nightmare scenarios of Mycroft shot by his own security to prevent him from being kidnapped, Lestrade was slow to react. "What case?" he said vacantly.

Mycroft had little difficulty in guessing Gregory's line of thought. Brisk and matter of fact seemed the best way to behave - if a gory murder couldn't distract Gregory, nothing could.

"Do you recall the cold case we discussed on the island? From the mid 1960s. The parents, called Roman, were butchered in their Hackney flat. They were survived by their children. Both you and Sherlock thought the eldest son the likely murderer. Then we realised the crime scene photos had been doctored in the period after the construction of the London Eye - around 2003 - leading to uncertainty whether there had actually been a murder at all. Worse, there was the concern that other case files at the Police Archive at Hendon might have been tampered with. And if even the suspicion of that had become public... Gregory?"

"I'm listening. I've been checking in with Anthea every month or so, but I knew the investigation would be slow, given the need for secrecy. She's finished? How bad is it?"

"It could be a great deal worse. Would you like me to bring you up-to-date on Anthea's findings, or would you prefer to read the papers for yourself?"

"You've read them all?"

"Of course," said Mycroft, faintly puzzled.

"Then I'll start with your synopsis."

Mycroft brought out from the bedroom four obviously heavy cases.

"I thought those were your clothes," said Lestrade. "They're all about the Hendon Archive investigation?"

"No, there are five more cases. But nothing else you need to read right now."

Lestrade looked unenthusiastic. "Have you read everything?"

"Of course."

"I will never ask you to eat a hamburger again," Lestrade promised him in heartfelt tones, because he knew how long it must have taken Mycroft. "Give me the gist - you're far quicker at putting everything in a logical sequence than I am. You see the whole picture."

Mycroft gave him an old-fashioned look. "You'll say anything to get out of paperwork."

"True. But you are."

"I didn't want you to think I was interfering."

Lestrade's expression softened. "I don't. You did it to save me work. No mean feat given how little free time you have."

"Yes, well, never mind that," said Mycroft, fidgeting where he sat. "As you probably know, the Archive is manned by eight police officers and eleven civilians, plus two security guards at night. From our investigations, while there have been various offences committed - listed here for you to act on as you see fit - there's nothing more serious than recreational drug use and speeding."

"Says our resident pot-head."

"I see the gratitude didn't last long."

Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin and motioned for Mycroft to continue.

"We found nothing to suggest that any of those employed between the years 2000 to the present day were likely to be implicated in the file tampering. There's no indication that other files have been compromised, although given the thousands stored there it's been a random sampling only, because of the need for secrecy. Were you aware that the Archive is guarded by a private security company?"

Lestrade pulled a face. "That's just barmy enough to be true. Private security guards guarding the police... It's bloody well risible."

"I confess, I'm at a loss to understand the thinking behind the decision."

"It'll be financial," said Lestrade with gloom. "It always is."

"Not judging by the costings I saw."

"Yeah? Are you good with figures?"

"Modesty forbids," murmured Mycroft.

Lestrade hooted. "Try for something vaguely believable," he advised, playing footsie under the table, just in case Mycroft thought he was serious. "If you're a financial wiz, along with everything else, is there any chance of you taking over my finances?"

"None whatsoever," Mycroft assured him, before his eyes narrowed. "You have a problem?"

"No, just that it's boring," said Lestrade sunnily.

Mycroft's face relaxed into one of his rare, goofy grins. "You're shameless."

"It was worth a try," Lestrade shrugged. "So...these security guards..."

"You'll be relieved to know there is a suspect, though we have little information on him. His physical and electronic personnel file is missing both from the Archive Centre and the security firm which employed him. Any security tapes were wiped years ago and contact between the day staff and security was limited to the odd nod. His Inland Revenue files contain a fictitious address. His National Insurance Number is that of a sailor who died in the Falklands conflict."

"That's a hell of a lot of effort just to work at Hendon Police Archive. Especially if only one file was tampered with."

"Our thoughts exactly. Part of the guards' patrol route overlooked a warehouse which imported goods from Pakistan and Afghanistan."

"Drugs?"

"The warehouse was broken into the night before the security guard vanished. A worker there was killed. Ostensibly goods totalling eighty thousand pounds were stolen but the local police found enough traces of heroin to suggest the figure was probably closer to a million pounds. Most of the stock was oriental carpets and rugs, ideal for smuggling, I would have thought."

"Then the file tampering was just...mischief. Again, he went to a lot of trouble, if that was the case. But why that file?" puzzled Lestrade. "Have the police anything on this guard?"

"No. The name he used was Col Sebastian, although that's obviously an alias. Three employees have vague memories of him. There are enough basic similarities to these three artist's impressions from their descriptions to suggest he's a striking looking man. Here."

Mycroft set out three pictures and turned them to face Lestrade.

The images were of a man in his mid-fifties with a bony nose, gaunt face, high forehead and the eyes of a predator.

Lestrade stared at the images before slowly drawing one picture to him, his fingers crumpling the corner of the page before he regained control. He jumped at the touch on his shoulder.

"You know him," said Mycroft with certainty as he perched on the edge of the table beside Lestrade.

"Yeah. Not professionally though."

Mycroft waited him out because he was wary of saying the wrong thing. Gregory was vibrating with tension, so the memories were obviously unpleasant.

"D'you still keep that packet of cigarettes in your briefcase?" asked Lestrade abruptly.

Mycroft nodded and went to fetch them.

Lestrade smoked in silence, lighting a second cigarette from the stub of the first, before he spoke.

"In 1977 that bloke came to work in the Care Home in Hackney. I still have the occasional nightmare about him."

Mycroft forgot how to breathe. "Did he - ?"

"What? No. He wasn't a paedophile, just your common or garden sadist. He got off on terrorising small boys. His name was Sebastian Armon when I knew him. Mr Amen we used to call him amongst ourselves because if you saw him coming, you started saying your prayers. These aren't a bad likeness. But I should see your sketch artist because I can improve on the image."

"I'll arrange it," Mycroft confirmed. "It might be easier, if you agree, for them to come here."

"Whatever," said Lestrade, most of his attention on the image in front of him. "That bastard's the reason I ran away from the Home so often."

Mycroft nodded. "With your permission, we'll investigate his employment there."

Lestrade stubbed out his second cigarette. "While I twiddle my thumbs?"

Mycroft took an audible breath before speaking so slowly that it suggested he felt he was picking his way through a verbal minefield.

"It occurs to me that a lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service might tell you that if - when - we catch up with Sebastian, a conviction would be more likely if you had played no part in bringing him to justice. Because of your history. His defence could argue it had prejudiced - "

"No need to go on. I get the point. Sorry," Lestrade added a moment later. "I don't know why I'm taking it out on you."

"I was hoping you would be willing to track down all your police contacts in Hackney to establish if there ever was a Roman family and a gruesome murder. It can't be a coincidence that Armon is an anagram of Roman."

"The name - those five letters - mean something to him," said Lestrade, before he began to pace around the room. "And he's used 'Sebastian' twice."

"Indeed." Mycroft divided his attention between Lestrade and the instructions he was texting to his assistant.

"What the hell's going on?" Lestrade asked eventually. He returned to the table to light a third cigarette, exuding a nervy energy unusual for three in the morning.

"That's what we'll find out," said Mycroft, with nothing on his face or in his voice to betray him. He intended to have a long talk with the man who had so terrified Gregory nearly thirty years ago that the mere mention of his name could make him look like this.

"It doesn't look as if this case is going to be a matter of national security, or a threat to the British justice system any more," said Lestrade.

"That remains to be seen. We'll finish the investigation ourselves. The fewer people who know about what's been going on, the better."

Lestrade nodded his thanks. "Sebastian's never cropped up on our records. I've kept an eye out. Of course, I only had the one name to go by."

"Does the Yard have a facial recognition programme?"

"Not that I have access to."

"Then I'll check that from our end."

"But carefully?"

"Careful is my middle name," Mycroft assured him. 

But Lestrade was too preoccupied for one of his feeble jokes. "That was a hell of a synopsis you gave me. You're scarily good at joining the dots."

"I sometimes think that should be in my job description."

"We can't even be sure that the Romans, if they existed, were murdered."

"The bodies were real," said Mycroft.

"They were doctored, black and white photos. It's possible to steal bodies from a morgue, or hospital. Even from an undertakers. Not many go in for an open coffin. And blood's easy enough to come by. The intestines could have come from a pig."

As Mycroft watched and listened, Lestrade lost the numb, lost expression which had so worried him.

"I wonder if we should be playing closer attention to the file the Roman case had slipped in to - the torso of the unidentified woman found in the Thames. Can you check her DNA against all missing women of a similar age and ethnicity?" said Mycroft.

"Theoretically. But the cost would be phenomenal. Robinson would never sign off on it - presuming I could explain my interest in the first place," added Lestrade.

"I'll make sure he receives a request for a sample of her DNA. I can see to the testing."

"What if someone asks - "

Mycroft gave him a patient look. "Gregory, who do you imagine would question me?" he asked, with the unthinking arrogance that would be intensely irritating in other circumstances.

"Moneypenny," said Lestrade, with a promptness that showed he was on the road to recovery.

"There is that," Mycroft conceded.

"She and David have done a fantastic job - not least in keeping their investigation under the radar. Thank them for me?"

"You don't want to do that yourself?"

"David will think I'm sucking up in an attempt to convince him I'm safe to be trusted with you. And Moneypenny's bloody scary when she puts her mind to it."

"You should have tried working with Edith Carson," said Mycroft with feeling.

Lestrade's attention had returned to the artist's impression of Sebastian. "He'll be close to sixty by now, which is roughly the same age the Roman's eldest son would be - the one we thought had butchered his parents. But you've already thought of that," he realised. 

"It's my job to try to see every side of a problem."

"Sussing out that warehouse, just to rob it, still doesn't explain why Sebastian tampered with that file."

"If it was him."

"There are no other suspects. Besides, why play games with the file? Far simpler just to destroy it. Fuck, what about the physical evidence? That will be stored in a different area of the Archive."

Mycroft picked up his phone and called Anthea again.

"But I keep coming back to why didn't he destroy the file?" mused Lestrade.

"I was pondering exactly that point," admitted Mycroft, giving the packet of cigarettes a look of longing.

Lestrade picked up the packet, crumpled the remaining cigarettes, and tossed them into the waste bin. "I was traumatised. You don't have that excuse," he said, following Mycroft's wistful gaze. 

"No," sighed Mycroft. There were disadvantages to Gregory's protective streak.

"Armon liked to draw blood," Lestrade added into the silence, his gaze on something only he could see.

Mycroft's mouth thinned at his own impotence to do anything constructive right now. One hand shielding his eyes, his head bent, Gregory was a text book picture of shame. As if a child tormented by an adult who was supposed to care for him had anything to be ashamed of.

As if he didn't understand Gregory's reaction all too well.

Armon. Roman. There were plenty of other variations, of course. Orman. Norma. Moran.

Moran. His German counterpart had been discussing the increase in violent crime over recent months. The name had been mentioned. He would call Dieter tomorrow. To do so now, in the middle of the night, would send out the wrong message. Besides, he wanted Gregory safely out of earshot.

Mycroft refoccused to find Lestrade watching him.

"You're half-asleep," said Lestrade fondly.

"Nonsense. I was just thinking."

"Have you stopped now?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"You know what I mean," said Lestrade unabashed. "Will you do me a favour?" he added.

"Yes."

Lestrade gave his first genuine smile for some time. "That was rash of you."

"Don't think I didn't realise it the moment the words left my mouth," said Mycroft wryly. "However, a promise is a promise. I trust you not to take advantage."

"Even more rash. Take me to bed. I don't want to think for a while. Well, not of anything but you."

"You drive a hard bargain," said Mycroft, getting to his feet.

"I've just thought. We should check on the other kids who were in the home with me," said Lestrade, before he was off again, suggesting fresh lines of inquiry.

Mycroft gave a soft sigh, reseated himself, and abandoned thoughts of carnal delights in the foreseeable future.

oOo

The following day Lestrade wasn't home until well after midnight and he was careful not to disturb Mycroft as he slid into bed. Convinced he was too wired to sleep, a mood not helped by Sherlock's invigorating presence at the crime scene, he tucked himself up against Mycroft's long length and, with his nose to the nape of Mycroft's neck, fell asleep so quickly that he never realised Mycroft had been awake the whole time.

 

When Mycroft emerged from the bathroom the following morning, Lestrade was leaping up and down on the spot. 

"Need to pee," he muttered, dashing past Mycroft.

"You could have come in," said Mycroft mildly.

"Now you tell me," called Lestrade, through the partially open door.

By the time Lestrade had showered, shaved and dressed, Mycroft was sipping tea, while listening to the beginning of the 'Today' programme on Radio 4.

"Sit tight, I'll go," said Lestrade, as the front door bell rang. He was used to the early morning visitors since Mycroft had moved in. But the security team had the good manners not to make use of their key when they knew he was with Mycroft.

"Morning, David. Have you got time for a cup of tea? Mine, not Mycroft's," he added in inducement.

"That depends on Mr Holmes' schedule," said David circumspectly, as he locked the door and followed Lestrade into the sitting room.

"Morning, sir." David stopped abruptly. "What the hell happened to you since last night?"

Kettle in hand, Lestrade turned and took his first good look at Mycroft's face. "Who did that to you?" he demanded fiercely, when he saw the clear evidence of a blow to Mycroft's left cheekbone, dangerously close to his eye socket. 

"I didn't think it would be so obvious," said Mycroft wryly, as he touched the spot with care.

"Stop prevaricating and answer the question." Lestrade was beside Mycroft by this time, perching on a chair to gain a better view. "Damn, that only just missed your eye. What happened?" He air-brushed the spot with a careful hand.

"Yes, sir," said David. "What happened?"

Lestrade turned on his chair and received a look from David so inimical that made him blink.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, David. Do you seriously imagine I'm the victim of domestic abuse? It was an accident," said Mycroft irritably. "Stop fussing. You, too, Gregory."

"It was me, wasn't it," Lestrade said, He looked so unhappy that Mycroft's unwary heart twisted.

"David, leave," he snapped. "This is a private conversation that doesn't require your input."

"Sir, your meeting is at - "

"My memory is functioning perfectly. Wait in the car." It was the tone no one argued with twice.

David gave Lestrade another lingering look before he left with obvious reluctance.

Mycroft leant forward and kissed the top of Lestrade's bowed head. "And you can take that tragic expression off your face. This is farce, not domestic violence. You were asleep, in the throes of a nightmare. Your elbow caught me when I leant over you, that's all. You didn't even wake."

Lestrade nodded. "Somehow that doesn't help much. I'm so sorry."

"I know that. Forget it."

"Difficult, with you sitting there with a black eye. And the bruising's not all out yet. Is your meeting with anyone important?"

"The Prime Minister seems to believe so."

"How will you explain away the black eye?"

"I won't," said Mycroft, with the arrogant serenity of a man unaccustomed to being questioned.

"Good luck with that. David was just starting to trust me with you," added Lestrade mournfully. "Is it painful?"

"Agonising."

Lestrade winced.

"Oh, Lord," sighed Mycroft. "I was joking in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood. Timing never was my strong point. It's a little sore, nothing more." He grimaced as he fished in his pocket for his BlackBerry and checked the screen.

"Gregory, I'm sorry, but I must leave if I'm to be in Whitehall by seven thirty. There isn't any breakfast. One of us," he gave Lestrade a pointed look, "forgot to shop."

"OK, OK. Len can do the food shopping again. Satisfied?"

"It's a start. I should be free for lunch, if you can make it."

"Where and when?"

"I'll call for you at New Scotland Yard."

"I'll come out to you," said Lestrade hastily.

"Ashamed to be seen with me?" enquired Mycroft with interest, as he allowed Lestrade to hold out his overcoat for him.

"I'm feeling better about that black eye already," said Lestrade.

"That's a pity. I was planning to let you pay for a very expensive lunch."

Relaxed by this time, as Mycroft had intended, Lestrade gave him a light kiss. "McDonalds it is, then. I'll wear my tie."

 

"So... No one commented about the eye?" said Lestrade, as he got into Mycroft's car.

"I loathe people who say 'I told you so'."

"Me, too," said Lestrade with suspect sympathy. "It must be particularly galling when you're used to being right."

"Finished?" said Mycroft, but his smiling eyes betrayed him.

"Unless I think of something later. Where are we going?"

"The Rubens Hotel."

"We could have walked there faster. Why?" Lestrade's expression brightened. "Afternoon nookie?"

"No, for - What was I thinking? Of course for sex. And you're right, walking would be faster," said Mycroft, signalling to his driver to pull over.

Lestrade's smug expression lasted for most of the day.

oOo

"Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you to keep your front door locked! Anyone could walk in." Lestrade made a point of shutting it behind him and fastening the chain, 'security' being something of a misnomer given how flimsy it was.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope to eye him without enthusiasm or surprise. "I heard you coming up the stairs."

"Very probably. But how did you know it was me?" challenged Lestrade as he rocked on his heels. Hands punched deep in his coat pockets, the tip of his nose was almost as red as the scarf hooked around his neck. The snow flurries outside betrayed the fact the Spring was in retreat.

"Really, Lestrade. You were whistling that ridiculous song you like so much."

"Which one's that?" asked Lestrade innocently.

"I refuse to say the title again," snapped Sherlock.

Lestrade cocked his head. "Embarrassed?"

"By how banal it is? Definitely."

"I'll try not to be so predictable in the future. Pee in this." Lestrade held out a small plastic container.

"You'll have to wait until I've drunk some tea," said Sherlock sulkily, all his attention ostensibly on whatever it was on the slide he was studying. "You know where everything is."

Duly dismissed with a flamboyant wave of an elegant hand, Lestrade gave the small kitchen a wary look. He searched out the least stained mug and gave it a cursory rinse, before hunting for the tea, which never seemed to be stored in the same place twice. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock didn't care what tea he drank, so long as it was hot.

"Here you go," Lestrade said, taking the mug over to Sherlock.

"You never make yourself one."

"And never will until your hygiene improves. This place is a disgrace. You need a flatmate to keep you in check."

"I might have one if my brother didn't keep bribing them," said Sherlock sulkily.

"Does he do that often?" asked Lestrade casually, as if he hadn't heard Mycroft complaining about how unsuitable the last one had been. "Hang about, eat this sandwich I bought for you."

"I'm not - "

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. Eat."

Sherlock gave the package a disdainful poke but condescended to remove the plastic case before examining the contents. "There are vegetables in this."

"Tomatoes are a fruit - and that minute smear of red won't kill you. What's that noise?" Lestrade added, abruptly alert.

"Mycroft's in the bathroom. He's either constipated, or busy saving the world again. The fat lump actually looked animated for a minute or so," mumbled Sherlock. He dispatched the sandwich with several impatient bites and some serpentine jaw movements.

While Lestrade had been resolute about not counting the days since he had last seen Mycroft, it had been six and London was still in a state of high alert. He just stopped himself from asking where Mycroft's car and security detail were, having seen no sign of them on his way in. One thought led to another.

"I thought you prided yourself on your powers of observation."

"About what?" demanded Sherlock with a trace of hauteur. But all his attention was now focussed on Lestrade.

"If a guy has a gut or a large backside, wearing a waistcoat only emphasises the fact. Your brother wears a waistcoat and I've never seen any sign of either. You sound like an idiot. And an unobservant one at that."

Sherlock sniffed. "You'll be claiming he's good looking next."

Lestrade was almost positive he didn't react. "He has a certain something."

"Too kind, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade wheeled around and for the life of him couldn't subdue his smile - until he absorbed the finer points of Mycroft's appearance.

"You look like crap!" he said baldly.

"Attaboy!"

"Sherlock, do be quiet and allow the adults to converse."

Mycroft looked so relaxed that Lestrade knew that whatever the problem had been, it had been resolved.

"I have a better idea. Why don't the two of you leave," said Sherlock.

"An excellent suggestion," murmured Mycroft. "Detective Inspector, if you're free, may I buy you lunch?"

"Sure," said Lestrade, ultra casual.

"Then shall we depart?"

"First Sherlock has to give a urine sample." Lestrade held out the container. 

"I suppose I might be able to produce one," allowed Sherlock.

"Off you go," Lestrade told Mycroft.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Someone has to witness Sherlock depositing his donation - to ensure the sample comes from the right person. That's usually my job. But you're his brother and you're here. So off you go," said Lestrade blandly.

Mycroft looked pained. "Oh, dear Lord. If I must. Sherlock?"

"This is ridiculous! If I didn't know I would pass, I wouldn't offer to give a sample, so why go to the bother of testing it?"

"It could be a double-bluff," said Lestrade promptly. "Just get on with it. I'm starving."

"I seem to have lost my appetite," murmured Mycroft.

"It'll do you good to - " Sherlock caught Lestrade's eye, fell silent and headed for the bathroom in an exaggerated swirl of silk dressing gown.

 

"Right, now that's done I've got things to do," announced Sherlock on his return. He threw off his dressing gown and pulled his greatcoat over a dark blue shirt that looked as if it had probably cost as much as Lestrade's entire outfit - including the contents of his wallet. "Always a pleasure. Do _not_ tidy anything." The door slammed behind him, there was the sound of feet on the stairs and the front door slammed.

Mycroft looked around, his nose wrinkling with distaste. "Why would he imagine we would want to touch anything in this flat?"

"Because he's nuts. You look knackered." Lestrade kissed him lightly.

"I am a little fatigued," Mycroft allowed. But he found the energy to kiss him back.

"What are you doing here?"

"Sherlock asked to see me. Well, not in so many words."

"Because that would be too easy. If he wanted to see you, why has he walked out and left you with me?" asked Lestrade.

"Damn," said Mycroft softly. "I must be tired not to have spotted it. Because he knows we're in a relationship."

Lestrade studiously studied the far wall, wary of giving himself away after Mycroft's use of the word 'relationship'. "I don't know how. I covered."

Mycroft leant forward and kissed Lestrade's drooping mouth. "No, you really didn't. You're a terrible liar."

"Isn't that supposed to be a good thing?" said Lestrade with spirit.

"Not when it comes to Sherlock."

"He hasn't said anything to me. In fact, he hasn't made a single personal comment since I blackmailed him into keeping his nose out of my private life."

"Hasn't he?" murmured Mycroft.

Under normal circumstances such a vacuous tone would have alerted Lestrade's suspicions but he was still thinking about Sherlock.

"Is he going to make life unbearable for you?"

"He'll certainly try to," said Mycroft, sounding untroubled by the thought. "I've survived worse. Rather than loitering in this hell-hole, shall we lunch? Preferably without Sherlock's donation."

"Absolutely. But before we go there's something you might want to consider first - although it's on the childish side."

"Perfect for Sherlock then."

"Pull out a couple of hairs."

Mycroft blinked. "I don't have that many to spare."

"Nonsense. Come on. I'm willing to bet the contents of my wallet that Sherlock will check the bed to make sure we haven't used it while he was out."

"Is he delusional? Have you seen the state of his room?"

"Once. It was enough. Sherlock's clueless about sex. Not the mechanics, he probably knows more about the theory than both of us put together, but how lovers behave. Unless it's murdering one another, of course. Add to that the fact you're his brother... So, we'll leave the bedding slightly off. And a couple of your hairs on the pillow - no, the bottom sheet. Mine can go on the pillow. He'll freak out," said Lestrade with relish.

Mycroft eyed him indulgently. "What are you, seven?"

"So you don't want to do it then?" challenged Lestrade.

"I didn't say that."

"I'm having a terrible effect on you," said Lestrade happily.

Mycroft conceded that he might be right when he found himself wondering if it would be possible to get a camera installed before Sherlock got back.

oOo

An undemanding six days of work meant that Mycroft woke just before five in the morning. Mindful of Lestrade breathing quietly beside him, he eased the necessary few inches closer, so that the beginning-to-grey hair was brushing his upper arm. He found himself seeking out physical contact outside sex more and more often, as if to reassure himself that Gregory was real and here, beside him.

It hadn't taken him more than a few weeks with Gregory before he had begun to realise that defences didn't just keep you safe, they also made you a prisoner, starving the emotions, until all that was left was a dried-up husk of a man. The container of diet pills in his desk drawer hadn't been opened since last October, he'd stopped smoking, and if he ate a couple of biscuits with Gregory he felt no compulsion to finish the rest of the packet.

It appeared that, when happy, he slept for more than five hours a night, even if the downside was a difficulty getting to sleep when Gregory wasn't beside him, twitching and fidgetting and stealing the bedcovers. 

Lust had propelled him into this relationship without a thought to the possible consequences. It had never occurred to him how quickly Gregory would take over his emotional life - or the time he would spend anticipating their next meeting, let alone the pleasure of being with him. He enjoyed Gregory's company more than seemed feasible given their myriad differences; his mere presence was...satisfying.

This was uncharted territory for him and he had gone far beyond the sign which said 'Here Be Dragons'.

Mycroft stared out into the darkness, uncomfortably conscious that he was evading the crux of the matter. It was more than sex, more than the simple enjoyment of Gregory's company; while he couldn't pinpoint when it had happened, Gregory had become necessary. Vital even, to his well-being.

Mycroft sighed into the silence and tried not to think about the new packet of cigarettes in his briefcase. It would mean moving and risking disturbing Gregory, who had just worked a twenty hour day; besides, he would smell the smoke and know something was troubling him. Gregory could be disconcertingly astute at reading his mood, even without such an obvious clue.

Next to him, Lestrade stirred in his sleep, rolling heavily onto his side, his warm breath stirring Mycroft's chest hair.

Odd that a forty three year old divorced Detective Inspector should have become so essential to his contentment. Even more disquieting to realise that it was more than that. With Gregory he was free to be himself in a way he couldn't remember feeling before - certainly not since Sherlock's birth. He had never thought it possible that intimacy could be so comfortable.

Gregory made it all so easy. He asked very little, while giving everything. 

Mycroft frowned down at the sleeper. The idea that he might somehow be failing or short-changing Gregory lurked in the shadows.

It was disconcerting to need someone so absolutely. It should have been disquieting. It was in a way, just because it felt so normal. As if, after a lifetime of being a misfit, he had suddenly slotted into his rightful place.

He thought - hoped, rather - that he was equally necessary to Gregory's well-being.

He wanted to matter to Gregory more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life.

The admission brought Mycroft up short. He had never felt this happy, let alone for so long. Perhaps this was what love was supposed to feel like. Perhaps, just perhaps, caring wasn't necessarily a disadvantage. Perhaps sometimes it was essential.

Might he be in love with Gregory?

He instinctively shied away from the very word because what was forming between them was too fragile to risk ruining it over mere etymology.

But, strictly in the privacy of his own mind, Mycroft thought that if it wasn't love, it should be.

 

END  
to be followed by _Work in Progress_ , Part 6 of _Fire and Ice_

**Author's Note:**

> If I hadn't been so excited about the idea of writing Mycroft and Lestrade, this note would have gone in it the beginning of the series. Because it's about eighty thousand words too late for that, I'm sticking it in here for the benefit of non-Brits.
> 
> New Scotland Yard is the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police; it is not an operational police station but staffed by senior officers and civilians. However, Lestrade of New Paddington Green just doesn't have the same ring to it.
> 
> Murders in London are fortunately far less common than in fan fiction. That said, in 2011, the murder rate in London went down by thirteen per cent on the previous year - i.e. it fell after Moriarty's death. Murders, suicides, and kidnappings in London are investigated by one of a number of Murder Investigation Teams (MITs), each being responsible for a specific division of London and its outskirts. 
> 
> A Detective Inspector's job is far more administrative than as seen on 'Sherlock', nor would Lestrade be in charge of the investigation. 
> 
> The British Police do not carry guns unless they belong to a specialised Armed Response Unit, Fast Response Unit, or are a member of a Protection Detail.
> 
> Tasers are coming into increasing use, but only by uniformed junior officers on patrol. A DI would not be issued with one, nor would any of his detectives.
> 
> The St. Ermin Hotel really did house Mi6 during the Second World War. There are rumours about a tunnel going all the way to Parliament.
> 
> And, as a total aside, having just seen 'Skyfall', am I the only one who thought there were times when Fiennes intonation seemed to be channeling Gatiss's Mycroft - or am I just besotted?


End file.
